


Unshackled

by stepOnMeZenos



Series: The one where Zenos loses his memories [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Amnesia, Amnesiac Zenos yae Galvus, Bad Parent Varis zos Galvus, Blatant Sequel Bait The Author Currently Has No Plans to Continue, Gen, Pre-Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 16:37:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18782068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepOnMeZenos/pseuds/stepOnMeZenos
Summary: Zenos, unburdened by his past, seeks a way into the future.Varis, caught up in his duties, looks for a way to preserve the past.Solus does as Ascians do, and wreaks havoc.





	Unshackled

**Author's Note:**

> Note: The reference to Zenos jamming crystals into himself stems from the Chronicles of Light short story, in which it was revealed that he can do all of those nifty things in combat because he sticks crystal shards into himself to force his body to release aether. This was described as a very dangerous process, and so I have decided to make use of that as a convenient way to explain amnesia. 
> 
> Many thanks to JanuaryBlue for helping with this fic.

This is not his son. 

Varis looks at the man sitting—not lounging—on the bed in front of him. Oh, he looks like Zenos, the long golden hair, the blue eyes he inherited from his mother, it's all there, even if the sickrobe he wears is unfamiliar and it's jarring to see him in the palace hospital wing. But he's been here before, if rarely and not in recent history, so Varis can reconcile it with his impression of his son. Everything else, however… it's wrong. Zenos should not have this facial expression—almost curious, and attentive in a way Varis has not seen on him in a long time.

Perhaps ever. 

Varis finds himself at loss for words. Not for the first time, with Zenos, but never before for this reason. What _does_ one say to a son who appears to have lost all his memories, and yet remains mentally sound—moreso than before the incident, frankly?

“They say you are my father. Varis zos Galvus.“ The name sounds hesitant on Zenos' lips, as if he's unsure how to speak it. His voice lacks the complete and utter boredom and the not-so-subtle mockery Varis has come to associate with him, and instead sounds questioning. The fact that everything else remains the same makes the situation all the more eerie. It makes his fingers twitch towards the familiar comforting grip of the pistol hanging from his belt. Mayhap he should have taken it off before coming here, but he does not enjoy the idea of being in Zenos' presence without being armed. 

“If that is true, should you not say something to me?“

“I have nothing to say to you.“ That is all Varis can think of. It's a practiced sentence that flows off his tongue easily, as he's often said it to Zenos. Even in this situation of utter wordlessness, it's something he can force out.

Zenos cocks his head, hair cascading over his shoulder. The gesture is at once familiar and alien. “Then why did you come? I don't understand.“

Why indeed? It is an open secret that Varis does not enjoy spending time with his children, least of all his firstborn. What _did_ compel him to rush to Zenos' sickroom immediately after being notified of his awakening instead of finishing the crucial deployment orders of an entire legion to a rebellious province?

Perhaps there's something of a father in him after all. The sight of Zenos lying in a stark white hospital ward bed, eyes closed and skin unusually pallid, had been strangely disturbing. Perhaps it's the fact that Varis has secretly wished for his death at times, to spare the Empire the fate of being ruled by him. Perhaps it's that Zenos has not fallen ill or sustained major injuries since his childhood. 

“It falls under my responsibilities as emperor,“ he finally says. It's a cheap excuse. The chirurgeons will be able to assess Zenos' state far better than he can, and will report to him on his son's health anyroad. There is no reason to do it personally. 

Zenos, however, does not call him out on his lie. He seems to consider Varis' words briefly, then nods. Does he really just accept it? That isn't like Zenos. Lying to him has been all but impossible for a long time, and it's lucky that he isn't prone to care—he will see through it, but rarely acts on it.

“Do you remember aught at all?“ he asks. Anything that would connect this—this stranger to his son? His posture is so different; the legs are still crossed, but he sits straight, and his arms rest easily to his sides. Almost the way Varis has taught him to sit, the way Zenos has long since eschewed in favour of whatever position he feels like assuming.

“I remember waking up here,“ Zenos says, “surrounded by chirurgeons who all seemed to know _me_. They told me who I am. Did you really name me Zenos?“

Why, in the emperor's name, is _that_ what concerns Zenos in this situation? Even when he's a blank slate his son makes no sense.

A blank slate… Could this be a chance to reform Zenos? To train his less palatable traits out of him, forge him into a more useful asset? Yes, if he carefully controls what kind of information is fed to Zenos, then… 

“You will not leave the hospital until I allow it. Is that clear?“

Zenos doesn't argue. Then again, he's hardly ever done that after being given a direct order, though he always finds ways to fulfill it in ways Varis never intended. He will have to be watched, to make sure he doesn't slip out. If the accident hasn't destroyed his intellect, he will find a way to make it out unseen if Varis doesn't put a stop to it. 

Not that Zenos would not deserve turning into a drooling imbecile. Varis has _told_ him to stop jamming crystals into himself for the sake of ekeing out a little bit of extra strength. Members of the royal family—his heir, no less—dying causes scandals that Varis does not want to deal with in his current position. 

An aether accident, really. Varis is going to have to make a show out of executing the supposedly responsible parties to cover it up.

He says goodbye to Zenos, curtly, as is his wont, and turns around to leave.

'Goodbye, father' is the last thing he hears before the door clicks shut behind him. 

When has Zenos last said that to him?

He shakes his head and focuses on what's important now: figuring out what to tell Zenos, and what not to.

 

 

Zenos doesn't like this place.

The fluffy plain white bedsheet lies heavy on his chest as he stares up at the pristine plain white ceiling of his sickroon with its bland plain white curtains and indistinctly grey floor.

Is it possible that a duller place exists on this star? 'Tis quite difficult for him to say, as he doesn't _remember_ being in any other places before, but he cannot imagine it. He has lived in this room but for a few days, and already he is beginning to develop a fervent hatred for the colour white. With a sigh, he turns over and buries his face in his pillow (also white, of course). This way, he doesn't have to see it anymore, at least.

They _say_ that he's lost his memory in an accident, and that he is being confined to these rooms to make sure he doesn't get lost or hurt, but he's _fine_. His body functions properly, and he's been able to draw a map of this castle even though he doesn't recall ever walking its halls. Apparently his functional memory has been left intact. A small mercy, if they don't allow him to make use of it. 

At this rate, he almost wishes his father would return. It wasn't a very pleasant meeting, as it was exceedingly obvious that his father holds no love for him whatsoever, but he provided a brief diversion from the crushing tedium of existence. 

He ignores the creak of the door opening. It is, presumably, a nurse. They come checking in every now and then, and they never have anything of interest to say. And indeed, a moment later she begins talking about something or another. He tries his best not to listen. 

“And your lord father said to—“

It's so _boring_! He wants to be elsewhere, _anywhere_ else—it isn't that he yearns for a specific place, that he wants to go someplace specific, but surely anything is better than _this_.

“—your exercise regimen—“

He pulls the blanket over his head. Even simply traversing the royal palace would help. It doesn't sound like an exciting place either, but at least there would be sights to see, people to meet. Perhaps it would even be interesting. 

The blanket is snatched away from him. 

“Please _do_ listen, Lord Zenos.“ The nurse sounds exasperated. “We cannot help you if you continue disregarding everything we say.“ 

“I need no special exercise,“ Zenos says. “Leave me be. I do not care.“

“But—“

Zenos swings his legs out of the bed and rises to his feet in one fluid motion. The nurse is Garlean and appropriately tall, but he towers over her still. “Do I seem infirm to you, woman? Must I _prove_ to you that I don't need coddling?“

The nurse pales and takes a step back. Why? He hasn't threatened her or said anything that would make her fear for her life—unless, of course, he has attained a certain reputation prior to the accident. Interesting, and potentially useful.

He takes a half step forward, and the woman immediately backs away further. “You are to bring me proper clothing. I have a mind to go for a walk.“

“Your lord father forbade—“

Zenos narrows his eyes. “You dare disobey me, your crown prince?“ Is this too much? He knows, though he doesn't remember, that he has the authority to order the palace staff around on a whim, but does he usually go against his father like this? It would certainly explain why his father hates him so much…

The nurse squeaks and all but runs from the room. Zenos looks after her, then shrugs and sits back down. If it worked, she will return with clothes soon. If not, she may return with his father, or perhaps additional guards or… 

Why does he not simply leave now? The door is unlocked and unattended. Nobody would stop him, and does he really care whether his attire is inappropriate?

No, he does not. 

With two steps, he's by the door and walks out of the room as if they never tried locking him up at all.

 

 

Stares and whispers accompany him as he strolls through the magitek-lit corridors. It's a bit chilly, perhaps, walking around in a sickrobe that isn't meant to be worn outside of bed, but he doesn't mind. It makes him feel awake, his mind sharpened and focused. It's a good feeling, after all the time he's spent lying on a fluffy pillow. 

He wanders at random, taking this turn or that, without a specific goal in mind, letting knowledge he doesn't remember accumulating guide his steps. Servants all but dive out of his way as he approaches. Some of them have probably reported to his father or his minders about where he went, but it's of no importance. For the time being, he can simply go wherever he wants.

Eventually, he finds himself strolling into an indoor garden. Garlemald, being located so far in the north, is not known for its lush plant life. Someone—presumably from the royal family, though Zenos cannot remember who exactly—has ordered the construction of a glass dome, to be filled with exotic flowers and trees imported from the provinces. 

The climate regulation renders the dome uncomfortably warm and humid, but he decides to settle down for a while anyroad. It _is_ nice to see something other than metal walls. Did he come here often before losing his memories? Was this a place he cherished? Mayhap he will ask about it sometime.

There's a stone bench in the middle of the room. He sits down on it and cranes his neck, looking upwards at the sky through the glass ceiling. It's clear today, with only the odd cloud drifting by. The sun is bright, though he knows that doesn't mean it's warm outside. Flowers as garish as these don't grow in Garlemald's icy cold climate. Where are they from? He doesn't know. Doesn't particularly care, either.

But he does find himself wanting to go there, wherever it is. Garlemald holds nothing of interest to him as he is now. Maybe he's simply forgotten, but he does not think so. Surely if he had held any attachment to people here, they would have come to visit him. Likely he doesn't have anyone elsewhere either, but at least there would be new sights to see, new places to explore, where people do not tell him to be nice and stay put. 

But he can't leave as he is. He will need appropriate clothing and provisions and an airship—he knows how to operate airships, though he does not recall learning it. Clothes are easy enough to procure, and stealing food should not be difficult either. It's requisitioning an airship that could prove challenging, should his father preemptively bar him from the hangars. It's possible he will be able to bully someone into giving him access anyroad, but it would be preferable if that was not necessary.

This necessitates keeping his plans secret from—

“Zenos, dear favourite great-grandson of mine! Your father did not inform me of your awakening.“ 

The voice comes from behind, from the greenery growing around the bench. A moment later, the leaves rustle as a man emerges from them and settles down on the bench, uncomfortably close to Zenos.

“The lack of recognition on your face hurts me so, Zenos. To think you've forgotten even _me_!“

Zenos silently examines the man. He does not look much older than Zenos himself, certainly younger than his father, though a white streak mars his otherwise dark hair. A sneer twists his mouth. 

“And not even a greeting. My, where _have_ your manners gone?“ The man sighs. “I am Solus, your great-grandfather.“

“Is that so,“ Zenos says. The name Solus rings a bell. The founder of the Garlean Empire, was he not? But if that were the case, he would be an old man. Is this merely a madman then, harboring delusions of being the first emperor?

“Yes, my dear, and I am _so_ pleased to see you up and about. Your recovery is truly miraculous, after what happened to you.“ Solus inches a little bit closer—not by much, but enough to make the invasion of Zenos' personal space even more obnoxious.

“What did happen to me, then?“ Zenos asks and resists the urge to rise or move away from Solus. He won't give him the satisfaction. He can, however, use this to find out what exactly his father told the people about him.

“A terrible, terrible accident. Most dreadful. Why would you risk so much, dearest great-grandson? Losing you would be a tragedy.“

Risk? That doesn't match what the chirurgeons told him, something about the engines of an airship leaking impure ceruleum. Zenos keeps his eyes trained on Solus, looking for signs of lying—fidgeting, perhaps, or impulsively touching parts of his face. 

Solus pauses, apparently waiting for a response, then shrugs and continues. “I may have asked you for a favour, but I did not mean for you to nearly lose your life in the process. Eager though you may have been to help, you did not need to throw yourself into the heart of battle against savages with heretofore unknown capabilities!“

A favour. If Solus is indeed telling the truth, and that is far from indubitable, then Zenos must have gotten something out of the arrangement. 'Tis hard to say what he would or would not have done before, but he does not think he would have helped Solus out of the kindness of his heart.

“Why did you ask me, then, if you did not want me to do it?“ Zenos asks. 

“You are, or perhaps were, a warrior who knows no equal. I thought none but you capable of dealing with the situation. Alas, it turned out that not even you could overcome the odds.“ Solus sighs theatrically. “I am sorry. I overestimated your abilities and put you in grave danger.“ 

The hidden barbs are not lost on Zenos. Even if this person is his great-grandfather—as outlandish as that sounds—the parts about being his favourite great-grandson are clearly lies. Unless, of course, he treats his siblings even worse. 

(Where are his siblings, by the way? He hasn't seen any of them yet.)

Before he can say anything, however, the sound of distant voices reaches his ears. He looks up and listens, trying to make out what they say.

“—just let him leave? Do you have any idea how many problems you might have caused with your foolishness?“

Ah. It's his father. Zenos is mildly astonished he is coming in person, but then, what does he know—he has met him once before, and they hardly spoke much. 

When he turns back to Solus, the man is gone. It's not all that surprising; it's clear he has a hidden agenda, though where he went so fast eludes Zenos. He shrugs and rises from the bench to face his father, who stalks into the glass dome but moments later. The nurse he sent away for clothes scurries after him. Her eyes are red and swollen. 

“ _You!_ “ Varis growls. “What exactly do you think you're doing?“ Anger practically radiates off of him. He clenches and unclenches his hands and the furrows on his forehead are as canyons, so pronounced are they.

“I have decided to go for a walk,“ Zenos says. “It does not aid my recovery to stay cooped up in a room all day. Indeed, I feel greatly invigorated now...“

“I asked you to stay _put._ “ Varis takes a deep breath. “'Tis for your own good. In your current state, you should not be wandering the halls.“

“I disagree.“ 

Varis twitches. It's well hidden and most would not have seen it, but Zenos sees the telltale quirk of the fingers. (Telltale? Mayhap that is a fragment of a memory of seeing his father do it.)

“In fact,“ Zenos continues, “I've a mind to stay out here a little longer. I find myself enjoying this place.“ 'Tis a lie; while he does feel invigorated, it has nothing to do with the glass dome, nor does he especially like it here. But he wants to see what his father will do if he refuses to come along.

“Did you not think to _ask_ to leave?“

“I did.“ Zenos motioned towards the nurse. “She has denied me. I did not see a reason to accept that.“ 

Varis glances at the nurse. “We will speak of this later. You, in the meantime, will go back to your room now.“

Silence falls. Zenos slowly crosses his arms while looking straight at his father. What he does not do is move even an ilm.

The lines on Varis' forehead deepen even further.

The nurse slowly backs away, towards the exit. A bead of sweat trickles down her face. 

The seconds tick by at glacier speed. 

Finally, Varis opens his mouth.

“Very well, I'll go back,“ Zenos says, and strolls past Varis and the nurse. 

He can hear something of a muffled groan as he passes by his father.

 

 

“My,“ Solus says, “one might almost come to the conclusion you care about your son.“

Varis grits his teeth. It's his evening meal, and he does not want to share it with this… creature, but he has no leverage. He can't force it to leave. He simply has to endure its presence. 

“That is, of course, if one were to overlook the fact that you have never in your life said a single genuine positive thing about him. In fact—“ Solus' twisted smile widens, “—it could be said you're partly responsible for his _condition_ , no?

Varis' fork screeches on the plate.

“Oh, if only you had shown him a bit of affection, given him something other than senseless violence, mayhap—“

“Don't pretend you know what it takes to be a good parent.“ Varis knows he shouldn't respond. It'll only goad the Ascian on. It latches on to any sign of weakness and does its best to exploit it… 

And indeed it continues seamlessly, “Oh but I _do_! I chose not to _use_ my knowledge, but rest assured that all the 'mistakes' I made with your father and you were well calculated.“ The Ascian places a hand on his shoulder. It's warm. Uncomfortably so. “Both of you were molded into tools, far more successfully than anything you've ever tried with Zenos.“ 

“I am _not_ your tool!“ He is his own person. Mankind is not a toy in Ascian hands, to be played with at their leisure. They are free. Free!

“Keep telling yourself that, if it serves to help you sleep at night.“ Solus waves a hand in that insufferably histrionic manner of his. “Far more importantly, however: What do you intend to do with Zenos now?“

That is the question Varis has been poring over himself. Zenos has unfortunately retained his habit of not obeying orders, of doing whatsoever he feels like—in fact, if anything it's gotten _worse_. So far he hasn't done anything that caused irreparable damage, but he plainly has no intention of staying put, and it's only a matter of time until he does something Varis will have to spend a great deal of effort on to tide things over. Again. Apparently that facet of him is so deeply ingrained that not even the loss of his memories erased it.

In his current state, he isn't fit to continue his duties. His abilities have not decreased, as far as anyone can tell, but that merely makes it more dangerous to send him out. He's even more unpredictable now than he was before. Rumours about his conspicuous absence are already spreading, however, and an official announcement will have to made soon. 

Perhaps he should proclaim that Zenos has been stricken by a mysterious illness and must needs take the time to recover. It would buy him some time, certainly. For that to work, however, he will need to confine Zenos and make absolutely certain he does not slip out. If he's seen out and about and in seemingly perfect health, it will raise questions. 

Magitek locks, then, and strict orders to his servants not to let him out under any circumstances. That is about the only method capable of containing Zenos, who will not like this in the slightest. Varis will have to be prepared for any attempts at revenge on his end.

At least he will no longer stumble over him in seemingly random places and then wonder whether Zenos engineered that meeting on purpose or not. 

That's something, isn't it?

Varis continues his meal and tries his best to avoid listening to the Ascian, or thinking of his son.

 

 

Zenos lies on the voluminous, luxurious bed and stares at the ceiling. There are some small cracks in it, little lines ruining the otherwise flawless room. Should this not be unbefitting of a crown prince's bedroom? Mayhap his father wants to humiliate him in a subtle manner, or mayhap it is that nobody cares about repairing the ceiling with him no longer remembering who he is. They _said_ his period of unconsciousness has not lasted long, but can he trust them? For all he knows, he could have been comatose for months or even years.

It's been days since he was last able to leave his rooms. Has his father locked him in like this before? By reinforcing the door with magitek locks, whose hum he can hear even where he is now? It's aggravating, in the way little else has been since the day he has first woken up without his memories. He can deal with Varis' obvious dislike, doesn't even mind it in fact, and he can deal with Solus showing up at random and dropping cryptic hints, but this—this he loathes.

There's nothing to _do_. His days are defined by waiting for servants to bring him meals, and pace around the rooms for the rest of the time. He could read—the shelves are well stocked with books—and perhaps he _should_ , to see if they shake loose any forgotten memories, but it's so _boring_. He's tried picking them up, but every time his mind quickly starts drifting away to… something. He can't quite put it into words. A fragment of a memory? A feeling, rather than a thought—a sense of motion is the closest he can get.

It makes his limbs twitch with barely contained energy. He wants to _move_ , more than the confines of these rooms allow. Pacing hardly helps. It's unbearable!

He pushes himself up and, for the thousandth time, examines the door. From this side, he can't see the lock itself, though if he angles his head just right a faint blue glow shines through the now unusable keyhole. Is there truly no way to disable it? None of the knowledge concerning magitek he has retained offers a solution.

On a whim, he steps back and kicks the door with all his might. Predictably, it does not work; the door rattles, but the lock does not give. Still, it feels oddly satisfying to do, and so he aims a second kick at the wood, and then another. When he lowers his leg, there is a sizeable bump in the wood. 

That's an idea. If he can't destroy the lock, mayhap he can destroy _the door_ instead. 

The door shakes violently under his increasingly powerful kicks until part of it splinters. Someone will probably hear the racket, but who cares? What's the worst that could happen, they lock him up again?

Now that there's an opening, the hole in the wood grows quickly. The steel floor behind it gleams in the light of a lamp that isn't in sight yet. With another well-aimed kick, a large chunk breaks away and collides with the wall. A startled yelp echoes across the corridor outside. Apparently someone saw that. 

Zenos shrugs and continues his work. Not much longer and the hole will be large enough to squeeze through. 

“Lord Zenos, please, what are you _doing_?“ The nurse's voice is breathless. 

“Nobody has seen fit to release me despite my requests,“ Zenos says,“ and thus I have decided to take matters into my own hands.“ This doesn't feel like exertion at all. Is it easy for most people to break down a solid wooden door? 

“You mustn't—what will His Radiance say?“

“Let him say what he wants. I no longer care.“ With a single last push, part of the door shatters completely and leaves a hole large enough to leave through. The nurse squeaks and runs away when he emerges from the room, presumably to summon reinforcements. 

It's a long way to the royal airship hangar. They will catch up to him ere he reaches it, but he feels _quite_ confident in his ability to defend himself even unarmed. Let them come. They will pay the price for trying to hinder him.

The only person who intercepts him, however, is his supposed great-grandfather.

Solus steps out of a side corridor and positions himself in the hallway such that he isn't necessarily obstructing his path, but could easily move to block him if he wants to. He holds a sword in his left hand. 

“My dear descendant, full glad am I to see you have escaped your unfortunate situation.“

“I was under the impression you did not care very much for my _situation_ ,“ Zenos says and attempts to walk past him. As expected, Solus shifts position and steps into his path. 

“Oh, but I do!“ Solus smiles and spreads his arms. “So much so that I came here to help as soon as I had heard you had broken out.“

Out of all the people Zenos has met since first waking up in his condition, Solus is the only one who displays no fear of him. Even Varis, who pretends otherwise, is clearly unsettled by his presence. Solus, however, seems relaxed and in good spirits around him. 

The fear is preferable, Zenos thinks.

“Help? What help could I possibly need from you?“ he asks. 

“Surely you can't intend to head out without a suitable weapon. 'Tis a harsh, cruel place, this star, and I would be inconsolable should anything happen to you.“ Solus holds the sword out to him, placed flat on his palm. “I daresay you might need assistance in reaching the airships as well, should you wish to avoid being held up.“

Zenos eyes the sword. He finds himself coveting it, to his surprise. He has been told that he is a swordsman, but it felt abstract at the time, almost unreal. Now, faced with an actual blade, he begins to see the truth in their words. 

He takes the sword and draws it from its sheath. It feels right, the way the hilt rubs against his palm, the weight of it, the slight resistance of the air as he gives it a test swing. It's as if his arm has suddenly grown by another yalm or so, rather than being handed a tool.

Solus' smile widens. “I know you so well. Would you like me to show you the way to the hangar as well?“

“What will you ask for in exchange?“

“Why, nothing at all. Can't I do something nice for my great-grandson every now and then?“

It's a lie, of course. Solus wants something, but for some reason he prefers not revealing what, exactly. That makes this a perilous deal to go through with…

...on the other hand, who cares? He doesn't know who or what Solus is, but what is the worst that could happen? Just like with everything else, he lacks the experience to judge it. _Anything_ he does could end in disaster and he would never know until it is too late. So why not take yet another unknown risk? He can deal with it when it blows up. 

He slides the sword back into its sheath. “Lead the way.“

 

 

Varis reaches the east wall of his office, turns around and stalks back to the west wall. Zenos is _gone_ , has bailed after demolishing his room's door, something that seemingly _nobody_ has noticed. Heads will roll for their incompetence. How could they not have heard him breaking down his door?

East wall. West wall. 

One of the airships meant for fast travels is missing. It doesn't take much to deduce what happened to it. Varis has sent out search troops to apprehend his unruly son, of course, but Zenos is crafty. It's doubtful whether any of the troops will be able to catch him. 

When he passes by his desk again, he reaches out and sweeps a stack of paper to the side. What are they, even, he wonders as he watches them scatter on the carpet. More petty things that really don't require his attention, but that he will have to work through anyroad. 

None of it matters in the slightest compared to the havoc Zenos could wreak, left unchecked and without his memory. Even before, when he still had an intimate understanding of Garlean politics, he's always found a way to cause trouble. Now, without that knowledge, it'll be worse. So much worse.

West wall. East wall. 

If the worst comes to pass, Zenos will pass on information to insurgents or even the so-called Eorzean Alliance. Varis does not know what exactly he has retained, but he will have to expect the worst. Or perhaps he will be lucky for once and Zenos will be taken hostage, so that he can pay whatever ludicrous ransom required to get him back, and then throw him into the deepest darkest pit he can come up with in the palace, to make sure he never escapes again. 

(The image of Zenos, bedridden after the accident, barges to the forefront of his mind again. He pushes it aside.)

Why, oh why didn't he account for Zenos being strong enough to break through a wooden door? Of course he is! Zenos is inhumanly powerful. He would have needed steel at minimum to contain him.

“What troubles you so, dear grandson of mine?“

That _voice_ , that terrible sarcastic voice coming from that creature impersonating his grandfather, come to _mock_ him for his troubles.

His handgonne is lying on the desk. His heart beats heavily as he grabs it, spins around and shoots the Ascian in the face. He knows all too well it will do nothing, and indeed, while the body topples, the Ascian simply reappears from a cloud of darkness. There can be no ridding himself of this creature, not right now, but it provides momentary satisfaction to see him die, even if only temporarily.

“Such temper.“ The Ascian sighs. “And you say _Zenos_ is volatile. Speaking of which, it appears the fledgling has finally left the nest, hmm?“

“It was _you_ , was it not?“ Varis' own fingernails dig into his palms until he thinks they'll bleed. “You were the one who orchestrated this—you ensured nobody would be there to stop him.“

“My, you think so little of Zenos. Is it so unbelievable he could have found a way out of your pitiful attempt at containing him on his own?“

“Stop pretending. Your signature is written all over this situation.“ Varis tosses the gonne down on the desk again and stalks away from the Ascian. He doesn't want to look at it any longer. Its face, at once so familiar and unsettling, is burned into his mind anyroad. He doesn't need to see it any more than he already has.

“And what _if_ it was me, what will you do?“ The Ascian hasn't walked a single step that Varis could hear, and yet it now stands right behind him. “Nothing. You will do nothing. Because there _is_ naught you can do!“

“Be _silent_!“ Varis takes a deep breath. He is not a tool. He is _not_ a tool.

“Such pitiful denial,“ the Ascian whispers. Varis swears he can feel his breath on his neck. “You and I both know it is true. You will be happier if you stop resisting.“ A finger touches the base of his skull, a feather-light touch—

Varis spins around, fist raised, but the Ascian is standing on the other side of the room. The accursed creature has the gall to _laugh_. “Think about it! I'm sure you'll come to see the light, or perhaps rather the darkness, in time.“ 

It vanishes in a puff of darkness, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

 

 

The pilot's seat is comfortable, covered in expensive leather as it is. It molds itself to Zenos' body as he adjusts his course slightly westwards. The view out of the window is… well, what is it? It's hardly breathtaking or even the slightest bit impressive. Garlemald's frozen wastelands are not a sight to behold. But there's an odd satisfaction in being able to see them for the first time. 

That's what he's decided it is. His first time leaving the capital. If he does not remember it happened, why should he care that it did? 'Tis meaningless to him. There is no point in pining for a past that is lost to him now. Instead, he will look towards the future. He will travel across the star and see for himself what its lands have to offer. Surely one of them will be better than Garlemald. 

Surely one of them will be tolerable enough to stay in.

The sun slowly peeks over the northern mountains. It rises late here in the north of Ilsabard; he knows the days are longer elsewhere, and wonders if it makes a difference. He has, after all, never seen it for himself… Perhaps he should go south. There are lands that do not fall under the Empire's reach, in Aldenard, past the Ghimlyt Dark. 

What is Aldenard like? He has never set foot there, as far as he knows—not even before losing his memories. He has learned about it, of course, but he is by and large unfamiliar with it beyond its military capabilities, politics and some geography.

One thing he does know is that Aldenard is too far away to reach today. Not even this particular airship, built for speed, can make it that far. He should land, find a safe place to rest; he's flown through the night and his sleep has been fitful while confined to his rooms.

On the other hand, he really doesn't feel like sleeping right now. 'Tis a waste, to spend his newfound freedom unconscious. 

Illuminated by the morning sun, he flies towards the first day of the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments appreciated!


End file.
